


Under A Blood Red Sun

by Boom12389



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Other, Post-Scratch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:53:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boom12389/pseuds/Boom12389
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave has his life flash before his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Under A Blood Red Sun

You had always had an uncanny sense of timing. The first inklings of power came when you were 13, but even before then, you had felt the steady, lock-step march of time. You were always exactly on time-except, of course, when you were fashionably late, or ridiculously early. When you first froze time, it felt right, somehow. Like everything was clicking into place. Like clockwork.

It was 3:14:61.20 PM exactly. You were walking home from school, and it was blazing hot. The sun looked blood red. (Alternian.) Days like that, people could fry eggs on the sidewalk. Sometimes you'd fry an egg there-just to see it work, you told yourself. You were doing it ironically. That was pure bullshit, you were doing it because you didn't have gas for the stove and you were starving. You could've dug through trash for leftovers, but some things you don't do, not even ironically. Some days you'd wonder why nobody ever reported you to child services, a crazy kid frying eggs on asphalt, trying desperately to ignore the taste of grit. You'd find out later though. But all that's beside the point. That day, on your way back from school, some punks jumped you. You were used to it, people were always giving you shit. You were the weirdo with the shades, the kid with no parents. The asshole with the shitty broken sword who was gonna snap one day and kill everyone. The freak with the red eyes. (The Knight.)

\-----------------------------------

Usually they didn't mess with you to your face. It was all whispers and glares. Most of them had the sense not to mock the kid with the sword. People tried to report your sword to the teachers a few times, but you were always too fast. What weapon? I don't have a weapon. There were a few stupid ones though. Most of the time, they didn't do anything, but sometimes, when they had friends and you were off guard and alone, they'd attack. They'd kick, and punch, and bring you down, and then they'd kick you some more. All you could do was take it. Don't show fear, ignore the metallic taste of your own blood. There was nothing you could do, except wish it would stop.

\-----------------------------------

That time it did. The world stood still around you. You looked into their eyes, and you saw what they were. Cowards. You beat the shit out of them, stole their wallets (Every little bit mattered), and ducked into an alley. The bullying stopped after that. Sure, they still hated you, but now they feared you too. That wasn't enough though. They kept bullying other people. So you decided to stop that too. You'd stop and start time, combing the campus for them. When you found somebody fucking with someone else, you'd beat the shit out of them. Every time, a voice would tell you it wasn't the right thing to do. You can't just solve your problems with violence. You told that voice to fuck off. It wasn't the right way, but it was your way. After all, you weren't a hero. (John was. Bro was.) You were Dave Strider, some fucked up guy with fucked up powers.

\-----------------------------------

Every week you got some cash in the mail. It wasn't a lot, but it was enough to pay the rent and most of the bills. You always wondered where the money came from. You would lay down and fantasize about who it was. A parent probably, or a brother. Yeah, a brother. That seemed right. Somebody who cared about you, who didn't want to see you dead. You had to have come from somewhere. Who was he? A movie star? A spy? Someone larger than life, someone who had to leave you, but with good reason. Somebody who lived a dangerous life.

When you were 16, you found out who it was, and wished you hadn't. The doorbell rang, and when you answered the door, you saw him. He was older than you, but not by much. He looked weary though, and sad. There were so many questions you wanted to ask him. You could only ask the one though.

“Who are you?”

“You. Another you. A dead you.”

He gave you a strange device (It's a timetable), and walked away. Later that day (4:31:11.11 PM), you heard a report on the radio. Man found dead in park, blonde hair and red eyes. (This is what happens when you fuck up.) Appears to be in early twenties. If anyone has any information, please contact the police.

You ate your shitty eggs, and you didn't cry.

\-----------------------------------

You had to protect him. Keep him safe. Be his knight, his protector. His guardian. You found him in a crater. A little baby, sent from the heavens. He was yours, you knew it. You knew his name too. You had always known his name. Dirk. Like a knife to the heart. (A sword through the chest.)

That day, you swore to yourself, you would never let anything bad happen to him. As it turns out, you lied.

\-----------------------------------

You lived like a king. You had so much money, you couldn't even count it all. Somewhere in the billions, that's all you knew. People swarmed around you, day and night. They hung on your every word. You humored them. It was the ironic thing to do. When you talked, reporters hurried to record every word. You were a one man media empire, and your rule was based on the Divine Right of Things. Shitty things. Unbelievably shitty things. They were so bad, they shat out wealth. You were always being asked questions. The questions were always stupid. Eventually, you just tuned them out. It took you a while to find a word for it. When you did, though, you had the barest hint of a smile on your face. Nakking. You had their attention on lockdown.

The concept behind the Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff Moive was brilliant. It was the ultimate in irony. You got the best actors, spent inordinate amounts of money, and had a legion of employees working to “polish” the work. It was to be the biggest, and worst movie in history. You managed every bit of it, working to make sure it was terrible in all the best ways. To your crew, it seemed like you were everywhere at once. That was because you were. You had become a master of time by then, making sure that every action synched perfectly to close the loop. You had to-every fuckup was another dead Dave. When it came out, you couldn't help but feel a swell of pride. It was universally panned as the worst thing to ever grace the silver screen, but nobody could look away.

In retrospect, it wasn't such a bad way to go out.

\-----------------------------------

The Batterwitch wasn't pleased by this development. She started killing people involved in the production. You didn't think she'd go after you though.

 

As you stand here in this alley, however, you are quickly realizing how wrong you were. Grotesque metal monsters have you surrounded. It can't be time yet. Bro is still so young. Where did you go wrong? Was it the donut? Or spending too long chatting with that secretary? Maybe you should've crossed the street a little further down, or taken the main road to your apartment. Something you did today doomed your timeline. It has to have doomed your timeline. You have to be a beta. The alternative is too much to bear.

Not much time now, the machines (Culling drones?) are getting closer. You aren't flinching. You won't give her the satisfaction of seeing you squirm. One last thing to say though.

“Sorry bro. Looks like I fucked up again.”

\-----------------------------------

In a dreambubble, two figures watch each other. Both wear bloody suits, one in green, the other in black. A question is asked.

“Who were you?”

“Just another dead Dave sacrificed to the time gods.”


End file.
